


Binding

by the_ragnarok



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-26
Updated: 2010-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames always liked to make up his own superstitions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Binding

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Cherrybina's rimming meme.

The crappy hotel room Arthur stays at doesn't have curtains, and they forgot (or rather, didn't have the presence of mind) to close the shutters before they crashed into bed earlier. This is why the full moon shines directly into the room, and this is why Eames wakes up sometime before dawn.

On waking, Eames stills for a moment, listening and alert. He doesn't know why he's awake, and the first thought is always of danger. He hears cars on the street, Arthur breathing soft and even beside him, some kind of insect buzzing. Nothing worrying. Only dim light in his eyes.

He won't fall back to sleep, he knows, so he sits up and considers. Beside him, Arthur tenses momentarily and relaxes with a mumble.

People often look soft in their sleep. Arthur doesn't. In pale blue moonlight, Arthur's stark, straight lines reminds Eames of nothing so much as the blade of a knife, honed until keen and deadly.

Beautiful.

He looks half-unreal to Eames' eyes. Arthur doesn't drool. He doesn't snore. Arthur does everything right the first time.

The sex was good, but Eames has a growing, uneasy feeling that he should leave now. It's not like Arthur would expect any different from him.

But Eames hates being predictable.

He runs a hand down Arthur's spine, pressing gently. Arthur murmurs, and if he does not arch into the touch, neither does he move away. With another stroke of his hand, Eames removes the thin blanket covering them. The shadow of the window bars stripe black across Arthur's pale skin.

Arthur squirms awake when Eames straddles him. He turns to look at Eames. “Hmm?”

“Hush.” Eames bends to kiss Arthur's cheek, mouthing a line down his jaw to the top of his spine. Arthur shivers beneath him, and Eames feels himself growing hard again, smiling wide at Arthur. He nips the back of Arthur's neck.

Eames is talkative, normally, but there's something hushed about this that he doesn't want to disturb. He licks his way down Arthur's back and thinks of fairy tales, cradle songs he'd heard. The Fair Folk, the Lords and Ladies, coming to a common man to love him for a night and leave him for a hundred years.

Arthur moans when Eames bites a buttock, and Eames thinks of rites and rituals. A saucer of milk or a glass of whiskey, a cold iron ring. Ways to ward away, ways to attract.

He challenges himself as Arthur spreads his legs beneath him. _Make him come_ , Eames tells himself, _lick him until he's nearly spent and fuck him the rest of the way._ And by the morning Arthur will be soft-eyed and content, smiling. Here.

Eames always liked to make up his own superstitions.

Arthur makes an inquisitive noise when Eames licks at him. Eames smiles and runs a hand down Arthur's back until he settles, until he shivers and acquiesces to the touch of Eames' tongue.

 _Down_ , Eames thinks, _into the hollow hill_. Into Arthur's body, where it's trembling against him; only Eames' mouth, for now. Not even fingers. Arthur growls.

“Patience, darling,” Eames breathes into him, and slides his tongue inside, languid. Arthur hisses and tenses beneath him, spreading his thighs to give Eames access.

Arthur's wonderful like this, just the way Eames wants him. No more control, no more reserve, just animal instinct, hard and ruthless, rutting against him. Eames reaches to grasp Arthur's cock, and is rewarded by the sound of Arthur's groan, by the twitch in the hot flesh he's burrowing into.

Arthur's close. His cock is wet, and Eames wants to swallow it, he wants to hold his mouth a breath away from it and make Arthur beg. Instead he plunges his tongue back into Arthur's ass. Arthur cries out and shoves back against him, hot and wet and so, so real.

He has to stop now if he wants it the way he'd imagined (and he does, Eames wants to fuck Arthur so bad he's _aching_ ), but as he kneels up something's different.

It's in the lines of Arthur's muscles, maybe, in the position of his wrists on the sheet. It's in the set of his mouth, lips pulled back to reveal small, even teeth.

(Arthur should have fangs.)

Eames isn't even sure what he meant to do, exactly, but suddenly he's not certain it's a good idea. On the face of it, it's just sex, nothing either of them hasn't done before. With each other, even. But no, Eames has to go and make everything look like it means something, doesn't he. He's reminded, uncomfortably, that binding wild things rarely ends well, neither for the binder nor the bound.

(All that semi-mystical bullshit aside, there's something about Arthur's expression that makes Eames ache in a completely different way.)

He's kneeling behind Arthur, and his mind has cleared somewhat from the clouds of sleep and sex. Eames lowers his mouth again, and it feels to him a little like worship, now. He wraps his hand around Arthur's cock and strokes him, deep firm touches. Beneath his hands Arthur tenses, then _relaxes_ so that he's completely open to Eames' tongue.

Eames could put his fingers in Arthur's ass with very little effort or repercussions. Putting his fingers in Arthur's soul is a different matter, and right now Eames isn't certain that he wants one without the other.

He makes Arthur come, silent and shaking in Eames' hands. Rather than fuck Arthur, Eames rubs his cock against the swell of Arthur's arse, grinding against him until Eames comes.

“I'm a fucking mess,” Arthur mutters beside him.

“I'll wash you off, love,” Eames suggests, but Arthur's breathing has already evened back into the rhythms of sleep.

~~

Eames wakes up to an empty room, the sun streaming through the windows offering no warmth. Arthur's cellphone is still on the table, but Eames knows Arthur didn't leave behind anything he wanted.

“And I awoke,” he says to himself, quietly, “and found me all alone on the cold hillside.”


End file.
